


with you, it's what i need

by reciprocity



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M, Oral Sex, Trans Katsuki Yuuri, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 18:58:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9456254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reciprocity/pseuds/reciprocity
Summary: Yuuri moves to Russia. It takes some adjusting.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Or, five times Yuuri and Viktor almost get caught in the act, and one time they somehow don't.

(one)

“You know, Yuuri,” Viktor’s voice rings out from the foyer. “I don’t mind it, but I must admit I wasn’t expecting you to bring quite so much with you.”

Yuuri grimaces, staring grimly at from the haphazard stack of cardboard boxes currently scattered around Viktor’s living room. “Sorry, _okaa-san_ packed for me, and she might have gone a little overboard.” Peering into one of the smaller packages resting on the counter, he sighs. “I think she sent the entire kitchen. She may have been convinced you didn’t actually have one.”

Yuuri glances up and watches Viktor pick his way carefully through the mess towards him. He bites back on a sudden smirk. “I guess I can’t blame her for that, considering…”

Viktor, near enough now that he can catch the surprise in his gaze quickly turning to barely-concealed delight. “ _Yuu-ri_ ,” Viktor stretches out the name, voice plaintive. “Are you saying my cooking is bad?”

Despite his best efforts, Yuuri can feel the corners of his lips curling steadily upwards. “Mmh, well, I think calling it cooking is sort of generous.”

The perfect bow of Viktor’s lips pull into an exaggerated pout even as his eyes remain bright. “I’m hurt, _solnyshko_.”

Yuuri doesn’t quite hold back the giggle at the back of his throat. “The truth hurts?”

Viktor reaches the counter, circles around it so that he is hovering near Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri pointedly does not look over, instead pretending to busy himself by fussing through a box filled with what appears to be tiny bottles of various spices.

He feels Viktor’s hand touch his side, gentle, and then the familiar warmth of his chest pressing against Yuuri’s back. “Yuuri,” Viktor whines again, but this time his mouth is right against his ear, and the nearness of it makes Yuuri shudder slightly, leaning back into the half-embrace.

Viktor kisses the tip of his ear, light and quick. His hands slide around the curve of Yuuri’s waist and come to rest easily at the top of his hips. “You’ve wounded my pride. You have to make up it up to me now, _kotyenok_.”

Yuuri barely resists the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious play. Gets distracted by the feel of Viktor’s lips pressing warmly to the nape of his neck, and in the subsequent shivers after.

He rolls his shoulders back in some semblance of a shrug. “That— sounds fair,” he concedes.

Viktor hums in answer, beyond listening. When he trails his lips to the side, Yuuri tilts his head obligingly, and Viktor is quick to press the advantage, mouthing openly at the bared skin there. He grazes his teeth, just barely, at the junction of Yuuri’s neck and shoulder; it’s enough to startle a moan from Yuuri’s lips. He feels the satisfied grin against his skin, the small flicker of annoyance in his mind immediately overflooded by pleasure when Viktor suddenly bites down, hard.

After a moment of relishing the attention, Yuuri pulls away, just far enough to turn to face the other man properly.

Viktor lets go his grasp on Yuuri’s hips in favor of curling his palms around the edges of the counter behind him. He leans in close, eyes wide and dark, lips parted, expectant. Yuuri doesn’t keep him waiting. 

He loses himself in the soft glide of Viktor’s mouth against his, the way their hips roll together in a lazy, aimless grind. His arms wind their way around Viktor’s neck, one hand stroking through his hair.

They are both caught up enough to be startled a few inches apart when Makkachin comes barrelling into the living room, knocking over one particularly precarious box on her way. She barks once, tail wagging in excitement as she stares down the front door.

It gives Yuuri and Viktor just enough time to blink at one another, chests heaving and eyes unfocused. Just enough for the click of the lock to jolt Yuuri a second time before the door is swinging open and a familiar voice is calling out.

“Oy, one of you two idiots wanna give me a hand here or what,” Yuri growls, arms full of yet more boxes. “I know I agreed to help katsudon move in, but I didn’t think you’d have me doing all the damn work myself.”

He stops a few paces into the apartment and eyes the scant space between Yuuri and Viktor with suspicion. “You two better not have b—”

“Of course we’ll help, Yura!”

When Yuuri glances over, he catches the full brightness of Viktor’s smile. He can still hear the slight uneven pitch to his breathing, but for all that the man had had Yuuri pinned to the counter and writhing less than a minute ago, he looks fairly composed.

Yuri is still squinting at them, but he allows Viktor to take the package from his arms when he reaches for it. Yuuri takes another moment to gather himself and will away any lingering arousal.

They manage to bring up the remaining luggage without incident. Though Yuuri does catch the younger boy muttering to himself, irritation simmering in his tone, as they make their last trip up the stairs.

“At least you two will have an outlet now. No more of _that_ at practice.”

 

(two)

Yuri has failed every jump he has attempted today.

It’s enough of an oddity for it to niggle at the back of Viktor’s mind, faint concern and puzzlement over it. He considers asking him what the problem is later; reconsiders when he thinks of Yuri’s usual response to even the barest of perceived criticisms.

The line of thought is not nearly enough to pull the majority of Viktor’s attention from the figure Yuuri makes on the ice.

He has been in peak form since they began their training in Russia. Viktor knows he must be pushing himself particularly hard, and the knowledge of it makes him proud. Yuuri has never been in an environment quite so competitive for such a long stretch before. It does him well, Viktor thinks. Yuuri has always done best when expectations are low and his natural drive for excellence can flourish.

In front of his eyes now, Yuuri nails a quadruple salchow, landing near-perfect and graceful. Viktor calls out his praise and earns a tired but warm smile in return.

He watches his student go through a few spins, a lazy glide around the ice as he cools down. After a few minutes, he makes his way over to Viktor, hand outstretched expectantly.

Viktor hands over the water bottle without thought. Indulges himself in watching the bob of Yuuri’s throat as he swallows, a small drop of sweat rolling down the side of it.

When he looks up again, Yuuri is smiling at him faintly. Viktor bites his lip, deliberating. He has a few bits of direction to give, of course, a note on the way Yuuri turns his ankle during his take-offs that could use improvement. Yuuri leans back against the boards between them, shoulder not quite brushing Viktor’s arm. He watches the distracted look in his fiancé’s eyes and makes a decision.

“So, do you come here often?”

Yuuri starts next to him. He turns surprised eyes on Viktor, blinking at him as the words sink in. Viktor gives him his most charming grin, and he sees the exact moment that they do, Yuuri’s expression going from confusion to incredulous realization.

With pleasure, Viktor watches the red creep up the other man’s neck. Distracted, he misses the sly look overtaking Yuuri’s features before he answers.

“As a matter of fact, I do. With my fiancé, actually.”

Viktor’s gaze snaps up. Yuuri stares back, looking unimpressed, though Viktor can clearly see the amusement flickering in his eyes. “Ah, I see,” he drawls and leans in close. “Well, is your fiancé as handsome as me?”

Yuuri doesn’t quite suppress a huff of laughter at that. “Hm, he’s alright.”

The grin cutting across Viktor’s face is rueful and unmanageable. He leans in the rest of the way, fingertips just grazing over Yuuri’s jaw. Yuuri’s gaze has gone half-lidded now, fondness and something darker lurking there. Viktor allows himself a moment to enjoy the easy intimacy of the moment, before tilting his head and—

“Vitya!”

The booming voice jars the two of them, Yuuri starting hard enough to skid sideways a few inches, suddenly unsteady on his skates. He catches himself just before Viktor has to.

Viktor turns a distracted gaze to the source of the interruption, and catches Yakov looking even more irate than usual. “What do you think you’re doing, does this look like a place to pick up dates to you?”

Biting back on a defiant, if truthful _yes_ , Viktor huffs out a mollifying, “No,” that is only a touch petulant. He hears Yuuri stutter out a, “S-sorry, Coach,” from somewhere beside him.

Yakov grunts in vague assent. “Then get your skates on already and get to work.”

Viktor nods, obedient for once. Once Yakov has turned his back, he looks to Yuuri. Or, more accurately, to the space Yuuri had preoccupied a moment ago.

He scans the rink and finds him now at the far end of the ice, a brilliant flush blooming across the bridge of his nose, beautifully painting the high of his cheeks.

Viktor sighs, forlorn, and forces himself to do as instructed, ignoring the uncomfortable heat plaguing his gut the rest of practice.

 

(three)

The next incident begins innocently enough.

They were approaching the start of competitive season now, and on most nights, Yuuri insists they stay late, feeling himself still behind most of his Russian rinkmates.

Tonight’s session in particular had gone long, and Viktor finally managed to coax Yuuri off of the ice after at least the tenth run-through of his Free routine. He had just been helping him shrug into his warm-up jacket, when Viktor had pressed gentle fingertips to the side of Yuuri’s face, guiding him into a soft, chaste kiss.

Things had progressed steadily from there: the surprised, embarrassed but not displeased noise caught at the back of Yuuri’s throat only spurred Viktor on to repeat the action. Yuuri’s hands had found their way to clutch at the lapels of Viktor’s coat, and at some point the younger man had gotten him pinned against the wall near the changing room door.

They couldn’t have expected an interruption, not this late in an empty rink. But after a few minutes (hours, days) of Yuuri heatedly sucking on Viktor’s tongue and thoroughly reducing him to panted moans and whimpers, he hears a poorly concealed giggle from somewhere off and to his right.

Viktor knows it hasn’t come from either of the two of them, mouths currently preoccupied as they are. He pulls back, more out of surprise than anything, and finds Mila at the entrance of the girls’ locker room. Her gaze immediately locks on his, one hand over her mouth and the other holding her phone.

Yuuri, still unaware of the situation, has moved on to pressing filthy, open-mouthed kisses to the skin just under Viktor’s jaw. He is sorely, sorely tempted not to stop him, not really minding the intrusion much himself, but moreso fearing his fiancé’s reaction if he does catch on without Viktor warning him.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, voice gravelly and slightly hoarse. Yuuri hums, and Viktor’s grip on his thigh squeezes, hard. “Yuuri, we have company.”

Yuuri abruptly stills, and then all but leaps back. Viktor finds it somewhat amusing, and definitely cute.

Mila is waving her hand, not bothering to muffle her laughter now. “No, no, don’t let me stop you! It looked like it was getting good there.” She waves her phone at them, eyes glinting in the dimmed arena lights.

Viktor subtly adjusts the hem of coat, sweeping it in front of his crotch and hiding any lending evidence there. He hazards a glance in Yuuri’s direction and catches the horrified look on his face through the small gaps between his fingers.

“Mila,” Viktor starts, as calmly as he can manage. “I think it would be best if—”

“Oh, I’m going, I’m going!” she interrupts, waving off any further entreaty. There’s still a mischievous look about her, and Viktor frowns at her retreating form for a moment before it clicks why.

“Mila,” he repeats. She stops but does not look back. “Your phone.”

The girl huffs an exasperated breath and turns back. “Alright, alright, fine.” As she hands over her phone, she throws a glance at Yuuri, who is still doing his damnedest to disappear behind his own hands. “Not like there won’t be more opportunities anyway.”

Yuuri makes a half-strangled noise of protest. Viktor bites down on a laugh.

It’ll be a rough time getting Yuuri back in the mood tonight, he thinks mournfully. Mila is teasing Yuuri now, prodding at him and pulling his hands from his face. It’s good-natured he knows, and he even catches Yuuri smiling, tentative, through his scarlet blush.

Viktor bites his lip, and uses the moment of distraction to quickly send a few pictures to his own number before hitting delete.

 

(four)

The fourth time is, admittedly, entirely Viktor’s fault.

“Yuuri,” Viktor whines for at least the fifth time in the past two minutes. “Let me see.”

“In a minute,” comes the slightly harried response. Viktor listens to the sounds of fabric rustling and Yuuri’s soft swearing, and then: “Viktor?”

“Yes?”

“You might need to help me.” Yuuri’s voice is softer, pitched in the exact way Viktor knows Yuuri is aware goes straight to his chest, as well as other places.

“Of course,” Viktor all but purrs, and sweeps open the fitting room’s curtain.

The costume for Yuuri’s Short Program is stunning on him, all golds and reds and tight-fitting fabric stretched over tantalizing skin. The theme for this year’s program is decidedly less overt than last year’s, but Viktor would — and does — find Yuuri irresistible in an ill-fitting bathrobe.

Viktor is abruptly grateful Yakov had given his gracious permission in letting Viktor have the afternoon off to accompany Yuuri to the tailor to pick his outfits up. It had been hard-won, taking an entire day of needling to get — it had turned out more than worth it, anyway.

“Yuuri,” Viktor breathes, and immediately his hands are everywhere, fussing at the collar, smoothing down his sides, combing back his hair with careful fingers. The look does not need much tinkering, but Viktor takes any and every excuse he can.

Yuuri rolls his eyes but bears it, looking flushed and overall pleased with the result (and with Viktor’s attention). “It’s… alright, yes?” Yuuri looks down and away, chewing his lip.

“Oh, _zolotse_ , you’re beautiful,” Viktor answers. His gaze roams low, slower now, and then up, savoring.

Yuuri’s blush deepens. He fidgets with the cuff of a sleeve and glances back up through his lashes. “I’m glad you think so,” he says, and Viktor really cannot help the heat sparking in his veins now.

He steps in close, bringing their bodies near enough to touch but not quite doing so. “You’re going to seduce the world all over again.”

Yuuri flushes impossibly deeper still and at the same time, he spine straightens. He meets Viktor’s eyes, half-lidded and dark. “They still won’t be the ones I’m skating for,” he murmurs, and wraps a hand around Viktor’s tie, pulling him forward lightning-quick.

The kiss is immediately filthy and deep. Viktor chokes back a moan and presses his entire front to Yuuri’s, arms wrapping tight around his back.

The fabric of the costume is coarse and cool beneath his palms. It serves as a wonderful counterpoint to the soft, smooth heat of Yuuri’s tongue in his mouth. Viktor loses track of how long they remain like that, only aware of the body pressed pliant against his own, and the rising urgency in his lower regions.

It’s not until Viktor hears a loud gasp that he realizes they’ve been interrupted. Again.

Viktor wrenches his mouth from Yuuri’s and turns to glare at the source of the intrusion.

He finds Georgi, looking both scandalized and almost — woeful, even as he waves his hands frantically in apology. “I’m very sorry, I did not mean to intrude.” He lifts the bag in his arms. “It’s just, ah, I needed to change, too, and you two were taking a while in here and so—”

“It’s fine,” Viktor says, with his fakest and most threatening smile in place. “We were just finishing up.” Not quite, reminds the insistent pressure behind his stomach.

Georgi nods and backs up a few paces. Before he makes it to the hallway leading back out, Viktor hears him mutter something under his breath — “ _Molodoy lyubov_ ,” or something like.

Viktor, thoughts souring, finally turns back to Yuuri, who has been worryingly quiet throughout the encounter. His face is pressed into Viktor’s shoulder, and he’s shaking very slightly, though Viktor cannot quite tell if it’s from nerves or — possibly — laughter?

“Yuuri,” he ventures, and yes, that was definitely a giggle, muffled by Viktor’s jacket. He repeats his name again, concern edging into his tone. When Yuuri finally straightens, there are tears in his eyes and lines crinkling beside them.

“I’m fine, I’m fine, sorry, it’s just, so.” He interrupts himself with small uncontainable hiccoughs. “God,” he manages, and dissolves into laughter again.

Viktor smiles, a bit lost but glad Yuuri at least seems alright. The sound of Yuuri's laughter makes his chest feel oddly weighted, light and constrictive all the same. 

It takes a few minutes for him to calm entirely, and when he does, he gently shoves Viktor towards the door. “I’ll be right out,” he says, soft, and Viktor goes, heart in his throat and impatience itching at his palms.

 

(five)

The fifth time is not really the fifth at all.

Yuri is flubbing his jumps again. Not regularly enough for Yakov to be on his back about it, but enough for Viktor’s curiosity to turn to genuine worry.

Viktor asks Yuuri about it, gets a noncommittal shrug in response. “You know him better than I do.”

Viktor frowns and nods, helping Yuuri off the ice and bending to slide his guards on for him. He lets his thoughts wander, considering. He hooks his chin over Yuuri’s shoulder as he does, using him as an easy grounding point while he thinks.

They both hear the grating sound of skates scraping unevenly over ice, followed by a telling thud, and turn at the same time to catch Yuri picking himself up from yet another failed axel.

Viktor makes up his mind, and kisses the spot just behind Yuuri’s ear, as if to seal a deal with himself.

_________________________________

He corners Yuri after practice. Yuuri is busy getting changed, and most of the other skaters have made their way off the ice by now as well.

Yuri, for his part, looks unsurprised but immediately suspicious. “What do you want, old man.” It’s not quite a question.

Viktor beams, features arranged in their most innocent configuration. “Just to talk! About your performance as of late, to be specific.”

The veins in Yuri’s neck bulge worryingly. “My performance,” he flatly repeats.

“Well, you’ve been failing your jumps a lot,” he answers bluntly. Before Yuri can interrupt with more than a half-swallowed down noise of indignance, Viktor holds a palm up. “I could’ve brought it to Yakov, but I thought you might prefer if I didn’t.”

Yuri clicks his teeth together sharply. The look of outrage burns down, slightly pacified for the moment. “Thanks, I guess,” he grumbles, not a hint of gratitude behind it. Viktor smiles, poised as ever. “What about it then?”

Viktor hums, tapping a finger against his chin, picking his words carefully. “You seem… distracted. It reminds me of when I started Yuuri’s training, actually. Like your mind isn’t on the ice.” A shrug. “I helped him through that then, I only thought to offer you the same. Well, maybe not _quite_ the same,” he muses, lips quirking.

Yuri’s expression goes through a handful of emotions before landing on incredulity. “I don’t need help like _katsudon _did,” he scoffs. “I’m miles better than he was then or fucking ever will be.”__

As if summoned, Yuuri appears in the locker room doorway. He catches sight of the two of them and makes his way over, a quiet smile on his lips. Viktor is momentarily sidetracked by the sight, and by the sudden need to wrap his arm around his waist as soon as he draws near enough to allow. Yuuri leans into him easily, like he was meant to fit there, cheek resting on Viktor's shoulder.

"Oh, Yurio, hi!" Yuuri chirps, as if he's only just taken notice of the boy standing in front of them. Yuri makes a sound of muted rage.

"We were just—"

"Oh my god, it's _this_." Yuri interrupts, any and all tenuous traces of civility gone. " _This_ , right here. Do you have to fucking be all over each other all the goddamn time? Is it some sort of medical condition?"

Viktor blinks. Yuuri has gone rigid against him. He feels oddly caught out, though he's not entirely sure what for. He shifts his hold on Yuuri, fingers absently stroking his hip as he thinks.

"You're doing it _right now_."

"Doing what?"

The vein in his neck looks ready to burst at any second now. His hands ball into fists, and Viktor has half a second to worry he's pushed him an inch too far perhaps, before the tension abruptly goes out of him like air from a popped tire. "Forget it." He rolls his eyes heavenward and throws his hands up in the air in a gesture so similar to Viktor's own dramatics it almost makes him proud. "You're hopeless," he spits, and spins on his heel toward the exit.

Viktor tries to call him back, but only receives a rude gesture in answer. He sighs and looks down at Yuuri nestled snug in his arms; he chalks it up to a loss for today.

_________________________________

The next day at practice, Yuri nails every one of his jumps, even the flip he has just added to his roster this off-season. When Viktor tries to congratulate him on it later, he gets only a growled threat of future bodily harm for his troubles.

Viktor heaves a sigh and asks Yuuri what he's done to deserve such a rebellious child. Yuuri snorts a giggle, ignoring the hurt look Viktor gives him for it. "I think you made him angry enough to fix him, at least," he offers.

Watching Yuri take to the ice, permanent scowl in place and form breathtaking as ever, Viktor has to agree. His coaching methods continue to be more frustratingly inadvertent than purposefully genius, but if it works, it works, he figures.

 

 

(+)

Dawn breaks foggy and dim over St. Petersburg. For once, it’s Yuuri who wakes first and drags Viktor to the rink, hours too early for practice.

Yuuri runs himself near ragged. The Grand Prix tournament will officially begin next week, their flight out to the first competition scheduled for only a few days later. He can feel anxiety building at the base of his throat, heady and constrictive, but it’s not the same as last year. The stakes are not as high, for one — Yuuri is no longer plagued with constant thoughts of failure, and Viktor leaving his side. The moments of insecurity, shaking hands and the urge to cut ties to spare himself of any future pain, come few and far between now.

Still. Yuuri’s shoulders are tense with the thought of returning to the ice, the crowds. It’s not wholly unpleasant. It tightens his spins, makes his jumps more precise. He is taut — and ready.

When Yuuri finally makes his way off the ice, he finds Viktor waiting for him at the boards. He offers a small smile, and a soft, "You did good, Yuuri." Yuuri blushes under the praise, and heads to the locker room for a quick break, Viktor following on his heels.

The atmosphere is quiet but comfortable. Yuuri lets Viktor help him out of his skates, and he does the same in return. Viktor murmurs something about getting breakfast, and Yuuri agrees, absently eyeing the clock above the door.

"The others will be here soon," he notes. When he turns back, Viktor is looking at him with an almost- almost inscrutable expression. Yuuri feels the air in the room shift ever so slightly, and he bites his lip. Viktor's eyes track the movement, and when they flicker back up, any vagueness from before is entirely gone.

Yuuri swallows, lifts a purposefully careless shoulder. "Until then..." he trails off. The atmosphere changes again, tension pulling taut, then snapping.

Yuuri isn't sure who initiates it, finally bridging the gap between them, but almost the instant Viktor’s mouth is on his, Yuuri is being pressed against the wall, desire coiling hot and desperate in his gut; all of the pent-up tension from the past few hours and this entire past week coalescing into a bright and aching want centered deep in his chest, and further down as well.

Viktor presses a thigh between his legs, and Yuuri moans. There are too many layers between them, too much space still even with their bodies nearly crushed together. Viktor trails his mouth down to his neck, and Yuuri feels his hands drop from their hold on Yuuri's jaw to squeeze at his waist, then further down, cupping his ass. Yuuri's hips roll up of their own volition, and he feels Viktor, already hard against him.

" _Vik_ -tor," he chokes out, voice breaking halfway through, and Viktor full-body shudders, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. His face is shadowed, pupils blown wide and wanting. He licks his lips and Yuuri has to bite back on a whine, pressing forward for friction, anything. He can feel himself already soaking through his underwear, his body clenching down on nothing.

Without warning, Viktor disentangles himself and drops to his knees in one fluid movement. Yuuri barely has time to register any of what is happening, before he feels a sudden wet warmth pressing between his legs, through the thin fabric of his training sweats. When he looks down, he finds Viktor watching him through his lashes. He licks his lips again, eyes dropping to Yuuri's crotch in front of him. “Yuuri, let me—”

Yuuri doesn’t bother with an answer, burying fingers in Viktor’s hair and pulling him forward, the firm pressure and heat of his mouth barely enough through the layers between them. Viktor groans, and the vibration of it makes Yuuri’s head thud back against the wall, a curse slipping from his throat.

Viktor tongues at him once more through the fabric, teasing, before he hooks fingers in the waist of his sweats and finally, finally pulls.

Yuuri has just a moment to feel cool air meet exposed skin, lifting his feet obediently as Viktor drags off his pants and underwear in one go, before Viktor is pressing his tongue flat and firm to his clit, straight to the point and leaving Yuuri mewling, fingernails digging slightly into Viktor’s scalp. Viktor, encouraged by the reaction, drags his tongue against his folds. His grip on Yuuri’s hips urges them upwards, angling him for better access.

Yuuri is a panting mess above him, arousal thrumming thickly through him, close from even this much. Viktor moves his mouth expertly over him, sucking sweetly at his clit, teasing licks down to his slit. Yuuri’s hips undulate without prompting, riding the firmness of Viktor’s mouth, and all it takes is Viktor thrusting his tongue into him and humming, for Yuuri to come, shaking, grip going painful-tight in Viktor's hair.

Pressing small, soothing kisses to the junction where his hipbone meets his pelvis, Viktor keeps Yuuri upright through it, even as his legs threaten to give way beneath him. Eventually he rights himself, and Viktor stands in front of him, eyes hooded and dark. “Yuuri,” he says simply, and brings their mouths together.

Yuuri can feel Viktor's erection at his hip. There is still arousal simmering in his veins, settled deep in his belly. He urges him forward, and lifts one leg expectantly. Viktor catches on and catches it quick, bringing it up and around his own waist. He grips his other thigh and lifts, carefully. Yuuri makes a pleased noise against his lips, hooking his ankles together behind the other man's back and rolling his hips so that Viktor’s still-clothed cock presses pointedly between his legs.

Viktor makes a choked sound and breaks the kiss. He looks at Yuuri with a question in his eyes, and gets his answer when Yuuri hums in approval.

Viktor gets his cock out of his pants with a surprising deftness, considering he has Yuuri pinned to the wall with the strength of his arms alone. The effort doesn't go unappreciated.

He can’t help the gasp he lets out when Viktor presses into him all at once. Patience is not a virtue within either of their grasps today it seems. Viktor begins fucking into him, setting a pace hard and fast. Yuuri drops his head onto his shoulder and lets himself settle into it, the empty ache inside of him finally abating.

Yuuri knows exactly how to pull Viktor apart like this, knows all the right notes to hit in order to break him, soft moans and put-on sighs and strung-out ‘ _yes, Viktor, there, please_ ’s. He doesn’t bother with any of it today, content to let Viktor fuck him quick and brutal into the wall, and let the responses come naturally as they will, a whine building in his throat, a ragged groan pushed out by the long and delicate fingers suddenly pressing and stroking over his clit.

Yuuri comes a second time with Viktor’s name wrenching harshly from his lips. He feels Viktor’s thrusts falter, egged on by the spasming and squeezing of Yuuri’s muscles around him. He pistons his hips a few more times, increasingly unsteady, before he buries himself deep and comes with a groan buried in Yuuri’s neck.

He has the presence of mind to unwrap his legs from Viktor’s waist and settle back on his own feet before Viktor’s strength leaves him. He strokes gentle fingers through Viktor’s sweat-damp hair, and they trade lazy kisses with Viktor slowly softening inside him, content and subdued.

After a few quiet minutes they pull apart and put themselves together. Yuuri redresses and Viktor tries, mostly in vain, to make himself more presentable.

Yuuri meets his eye and grins at him, intimate and secretive. They kiss, again, as if a string pulls tight between them when they go too long outside of the other’s immediate space.

“Shall we, then?” Viktor asks, lips bumping Yuuri’s own as he does. Yuuri nods, wraps his fingers around Viktor’s and tugs him to the exit.

The door swings open just as Yuuri begins to reach for it. Yuri blinks at them, face blank for the moment it takes him to take in their still-flushed faces, their entwined hands. The untameable tangle of Viktor’s hair from Yuuri’s desperate fingers.

Yuuri opens his mouth, unsure of just what he plans to say, but—

“Don’t,” Yuri cuts in, tone lethal. His lip curls and he shoves past them with more force than really necessary.

Yuuri feels himself blushing, vaguely mortified.

Viktor, quiet until now beside him, snorts a laugh. “The timing could’ve been worse,” he says byway of explanation when Yuuri throws a dubious look at him. And Yuuri — well, he can’t disagree.

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose it's just my lot in life that every viktuuri fic I write from now on is destined to become some long-winded lesson in self-indulgence. I had a really fun time writing this one though, so at least there's that. Comments/kudos are appreciated as always! <3


End file.
